


Lies we tell Ourselves

by Eisengrave, selwyn



Series: Gifts from the Divine [HashiMada RP Collection] [3]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Gen, M/M, and hashirama never can help himself, its not pwp its definitely pWithp, madara is as always a feral bastard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 04:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30066561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisengrave/pseuds/Eisengrave, https://archiveofourown.org/users/selwyn/pseuds/selwyn
Summary: Hashirama marries Mito, and nobody is happy about it.
Relationships: Senju Hashirama/Uchiha Madara, Senju Hashirama/Uzumaki Mito
Series: Gifts from the Divine [HashiMada RP Collection] [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2211912
Comments: 5
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

Like most tragedies, it began with a wedding. A beautiful, perfect wedding, complete with a handsome groom and a lovely bride, both dressed in their finest clothes, just waiting to tie their lives together forever.

It made him sick.

Madara stared into his fireplace listlessly. He sat on the floor, his legs crossed, hunched over a bottle of sake, and around him his home was dark and empty. His mouth tasted like alcohol and bitter ash, and he simultaneously wanted to never move or claw out his insides.

Locked between the two desires, he continued to stare into the flames. He could hear the crack and pop of splitting wood and if he closed his eyes, he could imagine it was the sound and smell of a forest fire. It would feel good to let it happen, a bright and bloody burst of violence, something that made sense in this senseless world -

\- and I could rip Hashirama apart too.

The violent thought didn’t soothe him. It would be useless anyway - Madara could tear Hashirama open from sternum to hip, spend hours digging through his guts, and he would never understand him. They were always out of step with one another, no matter what happened.

Today was just… today was just further proof of that.

It was late. The moon was dark and distant, the stars obscured by clouds. As if the very heavens themselves conspired to reflect the mood of the only unhappy man in Konoha tonight.

Or perhaps, there were two companions of misery under the starless sky.

Because Madara would not be alone within the confines of his home for very long at all. His visitor needed no permission to enter this home, nor did any seals exist to keep him out of it.

It was his wedding night. And all Hashirama could think about was Madara’s absence from the ceremony. It had been a sting to the heart, of course, but he knew the reason. He felt the reason, and so did Madara.

His chakra sensing wasn’t as good as Tobirama’s, but he didn’t need to be great at it to locate the seething mass of Uchiha he loved so dearly. 

Hashirama flared his own, only enough for Madara to take notice before he appeared in the room.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding.”

Madara twitched when he heard him arrive, but he didn’t look away from the flames. “Go… go ‘way,” he slurred, his tongue looser with the sake. He just wanted seethe alone in his misery and hatred - couldn’t Hashirama even let him have that? A place to retreat, the time to lick his wounds?

The bright punch of Hashirama’s chakra made his own fluctuate wildly, angry and combative in one. “This isn’t hiding,” he added, setting the sake bottle down in front of him. “I’m where I should be.”

With the clan. Watching his clan. That was what he should have been doing from the start, like Izuna had told him to, instead of chasing stupid, childish, broken dreams like peace and living together. Anger distorted his face.

And it definitely wasn’t where Hashirama should be.

Instead, he sat down next to Madara. The unpleasant flare of his chakra went ignored, as went the slur in his words. So he’d dealt with the day in this way, huh?

Hashirama knew he shouldn’t feel guilty, but it churned his gut, burned beneath his heart. He didn’t owe Madara an explanation. He didn’t owe Madara anything else than he’d already offered up.

And yet, here he was.

“Why didn’t you come?”

“Why didn’t I - ?” Madara laughed, loud and harsh, and he swayed from the force of it. “You’re asking me that? You’d really ask me that?”

He grabbed the bottle so he didn’t do something else, like grab Hashirama and throttle him. He didn’t drink - if he consumed anymore, he might just pass out - but he held onto the bottle tightly with white-pale knuckles. “Why would you even want me to come?” he asked bitterly. “So you can rub my mistake into my face? Go back to your wife.”

Hashirama tensed. That was where he was supposed to be. With the beautiful woman he’d married, today. The woman who would further his line, be his companion, strengthen the bonds between his clan and hers…

His wife.

But he was here instead. Confusion crinkled his brow. He would have liked to pry the bottle from Madara’s grasp, but it looked as if it was the only thing that sustained him.

“Your mistake?”

Madara snarled. Despite his drunkenness, he was on his feet in a whisper of air. His yukata hung off of him loosely, slipping off one shoulder, and his hair was wilder than usual. He grasped the bottle like it was his gunbai and violence was etched into every inch of him.

“Get out,” he hissed between clenched teeth. “Leave, and don’t come back. You’re not welcome here anymore, Senju.”

Drunk and upset, Madara was hardly a thread, despite the wild appearance that went along with it. 

If he wanted to fight, Hashirama would at least have an excuse to be here. He could say that he was only here because of the spiking chakra. A pathetic excuse, but it would stand, at the cost of Madara’s destructive reputation.

“Absolutely not. You owe me an answer, Madara.”

He was going to dig in his heels and weather the storm. Anything was better than leaving Madara like this.

“I owe you nothing!”

Madara hurled the sake bottle at Hashirama’s head. He ducked it easily, of course, and it exploded into a thousand little shards against the opposite wall. The little sake inside it dripped down the wall and Madara was breathing hard, so breathtakingly angry that he felt like he was on fire.

He looked down at the floor, at his feet. “An answer,” Madara said, shaking with the force of his rage. “You want an answer?”

What answer did he owe? What did he owe Hashirama at all? Nothing! After all, that was what it all came down to in the end, didn’t it? Madara was watching himself get pushed out inch by inch from Hashirama’s dream and their friendship meant nothing, their association deserved nothing. He owed him nothing.

He looked up sharply. The uneven light of the fire cast long shadows over his face and his Sharingan glowed with a bloody promise. Madara looked hellish, pale with anger.

The tension hung in the air for a split-second, vibrating like a violin string.

Madara shot forward for an attack.

Now, this was a familiar sight. Madara with his bloody eyes and chakra flaring high, darting to attack him. Only this time, he was already on uneven footing. Even at his best, when he was somewhat in control of his emotional disturbance, Madara would struggle to best Hashirama.

They’d fought long and hard enough to both know that.

Like this, completely on edge and somewhat drunk? It was no contest.

The wise thing to do would be to weather the storm until Madara either gave up (extremely unlikely) or tired himself out (that would take hours). Either way, this was working out to Hashirama’s advantage in avoiding his brief journey home.

Someone had to look after Madara, right?

Even if it was in the form of using the wood of the room around them to restrain him. The beams wrapped around his middle, his arms, his legs. 

“Fighting is definitely not an answer!”

Flames boiled in his mouth, but Madara wasn’t drunk enough to set his own home ablaze just to get back at Hashirama. That didn’t stop him from seething. He gnashed his teeth and struggled against the pull of the wood, so furious that he didn’t notice the pain of dislocating his shoulder.

“That is all the answer you deserve!” he snarled between curses.

He clawed the wood around his arms, digging splinters under his nails, and when it was all useless, he suddenly became limp. A little blood was beginning to trickle from his nails and his left shoulder hung at at an ugly, unnatural anger, but this wasn’t Madara giving up. He’d just moved on from his usual searing anger to a calm one, the kind of rage that still made people shake to witness.

“Is this it, then?” he demanded, his voice low. Intense. “You come into my house against my will, and then you’ll humiliate me in it? What’s next, Senju? What more could you possibly want from me?”

His eyes blazed like coals. Madara wanted Hashirama to hurt, to feel an ounce of what he was feeling. “You’re no friend of mine,” he spat, reaching for the worst kind of words, the only weapons that could touch someone like Hashirama. “I regret ever meeting you.”

Madara’s words cut deeper than any blade ever could. Hashirama should have let him burn through the wood, burn his skin, sear his flesh. 

It would be a lesser ache than this. But then again, Madara had always been more clever with his words, wielding them as easily as any weapon. He knew Hashirama better than anyone, and he knew all of his weaknesses.

Well enough to bury his poison words in them.

“You…you don’t mean that,” the wooden beams constricted, tighter, as if Hashirama could force Madara’s truth out of him.

“You never tell me what you mean. This is about something…the wedding. I told you that it was necessary. You agreed!”

“You left me no choice,” Madara growled back. 

What else did Hashirama expect? Should he have fallen to his knees and groveled pathetically? Should he have thrown himself at him and bowed and scraped like everyone else, and been happy with the scraps he was given? No. Madara’s neck was too stiff to bend like that, not for anyone.

“And now you have her. Or is because I wasn’t there?” He laughed jaggedly. It sounded like glass shards dragging against each other, sharp-edged and raw. “Is that it? Did you bother yourself to come all the way out here just because I didn’t follow you around like your favorite pet?”

He shouted the last word, his mood swinging as quickly as the wind. The calm was gone, replaced by heat. “Forget it. You have someone else now.”

“You’re unbearable when you’re jealous, do you know that?” Hashirama growled, tired of Madara’s icy words, spat with venom behind them. So Madara wanted him to hurt, because he’d not spoken out when he needed to.

That was so much like him that Hashirama could almost not be angry. He felt his fist clench, but the wooden beams disappeared, relinquishing Madara from their grasp.

He’d not come dressed for battle, and he called upon none of his impressive skills. Instead, he simply beckoned to Madara.

“Fine. Come at me. With everything you have, Madara. Don’t bury this, too. Let it be the end of the love you bear me. I won’t have it poison you.”

When the wood let him go, Madara glared at Hashirama darkly as he leaned against the door frame next to him. He put weight on his shoulder and popped it into place with a short hiss. When Hashirama made his challenge, Madara peered at him through his hair with a sneer.

“Don’t give me your pity,” Madara spat, not denying anything. It was too late for denials at this point - they’d done what they had done, shared too many things to take back. But that didn’t mean he had to entertain Hashirama a second longer. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To be done with me. You must have been waiting for the chance, Hashirama.”

There was no point in attacking him if Hashirama invited it. He wouldn’t defend himself and Madara got no pleasure out of kicking around someone who was unwilling to fight back. It incensed him, that Hashirama would rob him of this outlet too.

“Is spitting words all you want to do, Madara? Get to the truth of it. For once.”

Hashirama grew only vaguely tired of these accusations. If Madara could actually tell him the truth, everything would have been different. He knew their connection was far beyond what anyone else could understand.

It always had been. Ever since he met a boy so shy he couldn’t piss while being watched. That boy grew into someone touted a demon incarnate, someone who spread terror among enemies.

And also someone who couldn’t confess his feelings even if he was on the brink of death.

“Never once in my life have I regretted knowing you, befriending you or loving you. Don’t insult me with petty lies, Madara. If I wanted to be rid of you, you wouldn’t be here.”

Madara’s face twisted. Then he whirled around, grabbed the small decorative table behind him, and hurled it at Hashirama as well. The small vase that’d been on it shattered around his feet as Madara snarled, “You know the truth!”

He always had. Madara had tried to hide it, to bluff and lie and conceal, but the truth had a way of wriggling up to the surface between them. What truth did he need to tell now? That he couldn’t stand sharing his attention with anyone else? That his blood boiled at the thought of him marrying someone? That he was going to murder that blood-haired whirlpool witch?

“It doesn’t matter now!” he snapped. “None of it does - so leave!”

Madara’s temper was even shorter when he drank. Really, Hashirama was lucky that the table was the only thing that flew his way. He dodged it, of course, let it fly right by his head and shatter against a wall behind him. He wouldn’t lose his temper here, it wouldn’t help either of them. Plus, he really did have an ungodly amount of patience for Madara.

“It does matter.” There was no way he could leave him like this. And if Madara refused to fight, there were other ways to expunge this abundant, angry energy.

Hashirama moved forward, doing the exact opposite of what Madara had demanded. Getting close to him was no trouble, not when Madara was like this. Tackling him to the ground was entirely too easy. Hashirama pressed him down with enough force to make the floorboards and supporting beams creak and groan.

“Will you calm down?”

Madara didn’t answer him. The time for words was past. If Hashirama insisted on staying despite all of his demands for him to leave, then he got whatever Madara threw at him.

They wrestled briefly, but Hashirama had always been the stronger one of them. Madara wheezed, flat on his back, as Hashirama’s hand wrapped around his throat and pinned him down. 

He aimed a kick at him, but the position was all wrong and he couldn’t leverage it right.So he punched him. If Hashirama didn’t see it coming, then he honestly deserved it just for being a moron.

Of course he’d fight. That was always the path Madara chose. Honestly, Hashirama had expected nothing less. He caught Madara’s fist, closed his own around it. His other hand remained firmly on Madara’s neck to keep him pinned.

Hashirama didn’t want to fight. He didn’t want to hurt Madara either, but what choice did he have? To leave and let this feeling fester inside of an Uchiha? Even Tobirama would agree that it was a terrible idea.

And then, there was the other problem…

“I had to marry her. You know I didn’t want to!”

It wasn’t right that he was the one spilling his guts, but Madara’s face, twisted into an angry grimace, could make Hashirama say anything.

“Then why did you?” Madara raged. He still had one hand free, so he reached up and grabbed a fistful of Hashirama’s dangling hair. He used it to yank his head down, close enough that he couldn’t avoid his red, furious eyes.

“No one makes you do anything you don’t want to do,” he accused, breathing hard, his throat working against the callouses of Hashirama’s wide palm. “You could have fought it. You could have refused. You could have done anything else but say yes!”

If he had, what were the Uzumaki going to do? Break off their alliance? Go to war with them? Hah! Madara would have thrown in the full support of his clan behind his decision, would have dared those water devils to defy the will of the two strongest clans in existence. He would have relished the chance to slap them down for their presumption instead of rolling over like Hashirama did.

He tried to knee him, but Hashirama had clearly foreseen that and there was no space between their bodies and the floor. Madara tried to push him off, but he was too solid to move. He couldn’t stand it, this inability to act or react. A restless agitation boiled in every part of him and demanded some kind of action that would let it out, so he rolled his hips and dared Hashirama to do something about it.

“I can’t do just what I want, Madara. That’s not how leadership works.” Hashirama snapped back, but now, he was definitely distracted. Madara was a devilish creature who somehow looked attractive while entirely livid, and managed to do more damage with a roll of his hips than he had by throwing tables at Hashirama.

His breath hitched for just a second before he fought off the sensation.

“It’s not like I could have married you.”

That was, essentially, what Madara had wanted, in that mind of his that somehow didn’t manage to see the world quite right. Maybe it wasn’t just his eyes that were beginning to fail him.

“Baring your neck to everyone who wants to see it isn’t how leadership works either,” he said, sensing victory. When Hashirama kept talking, his eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. “You could have married no one.”

Hashirama’s rejection stung. Madara wanted to hit him again, but any of the jutsu he really wanted to use would wreck not only his house, but the entire Uchiha compound. That held him back the smallest inch, just enough to hold onto the edge. There was still a way to come out the victor in this.

He swung his leg up and hooked it around Hashirama to pull him closer. His grip on his hair softened a little - still enough to hurt, but not too much. “If you didn’t want to pick me,” he said, “then why are you here on your own wedding night? Shouldn’t you be consummating your marriage with your blushing bride?”

“You know exactly why, Madara,” Hashirama couldn’t back away now. He’d created this situation. Hell, he’d come here looking for something just like this, even if it had been under the pretense of simply worrying for Madara’s absence from Hashirama’s wedding.

They were too close now, Hashirama could smell the alcohol on Madara’s breath, he could see each segment of the sharingan in his eyes. By all accounts, he should pull away. He did not.

“You…it’s always you.”

Silencing any sort of angry retort from Madara with his own mouth pressed to the Uchiha’s was the safest way to get bitten, but Hashirama did it anyway.

Madara made an angry noise against him, but he didn’t pull away either. He made sure to bite Hashirama hard enough to draw blood, because he was a fool if he wasn’t expecting this anyway, and licked it up from his mouth, his teeth. It was coppery, sharp, and violent - it felt appropriate. There was also the taste of sake, a little too strong for someone who should be composed during such an important ceremony.

He smirked, just a little cruel.

There was something distinctly profane about this, that Hashirama had apparently abandoned his new wife for this and it both infuriated and pleased Madara. What was Hashirama thinking, anyway? That a woman could keep up with him? Laughable.

He let go of his hair and grabbed his shoulder. Dug his nails in. A low, liquid heat coiled in his abdomen, something possessive and hungry for vengeance against a woman he’d never met. 

Madara bit him, pulled him closer, licked into his mouth. It was an eternal battle with this man, but one Hashirama never managed to end. Perhaps because he didn’t want it to end.

He’d tried to let go of his feelings for Madara. Uzumaki Mito deserved a better man than him, and better from him. And yet…

Madara was smirking, the demon. Hashirama pressed him down harder again, the hand on his waist beginning to seek the edge of the yukata’s opening. This would be the last time Hashirama gave in to the fire beneath his skin, he promised, silently.

The kiss continued, hard and painful but also intoxicating in the heat it created throughout Hashirama’s body.

Hashirama’s grip on his hand loosened enough that Madara could pull it free. He did and considering trying to rip his head off his shoulders. When he felt him pulling against his yukata’s knot, Madara decided against it.

For now.

He pulled away from the kiss long enough to grab Hashirama’s clothes. He was wearing more than Madara - all sorts of layers, all of them fancy, all of them embroidered with the Senju crest on the collar. He took his haori off first and wasn’t gentle - the silk sleeve tore. Good. Hashirama would have to look at it, and so would that Uzumaki, and she’d know that it wasn’t her hands that did it.

Madara impatiently undid more knots and sashes, growing angrier at each layer he had to deal with. Hashirama shouldn’t wear this. Any of this. Ever. Madara would be justified in burning it all, because how dare he?

Hashirama finally managed to undo the tie - not that it needed much after everything. Madara pressed their chests together, savoring the hot press of skin, and immediately bit Hashirama right where his neck met his shoulder. 

Hashirama offered no resistance to the violent removal of his clothes. Madara was easy to undress. 

But even pressing their bared skin together wasn’t enough. It was a soft drip of rain over an inferno, and the satisfaction it brought lasted only a few seconds.

Madara bit him like some sort of wild cat, and Hashirama let him in favor of removing both hands from holding Madara down. Instead, they moved down with determined precision, grabbing the defiant Uchiha by the behind. Firm and inviting to the touch, it would serve as perfect leverage to keep Madara close, if only for a moment. 

They were a tangled heap of limbs on the floor and none of this was comfortable, but that didn’t matter.

Hashirama groaned with pain as Madara continued to be a rabid animal mauling his skin. But it didn’t put him off in the slightest.

“Madara…” he wanted to tell him that they needed to move, but there was something incredibly enticing about having him on the floor, right here and now. His hands lifted Madara, pushing him out from beneath him, forcing him away from Hashirama’s neck.

Hashirama’s groan shot straight down his spine like a lightning bolt. Madara arched against him and only stoppe when his teeth left a satisfying bruise on Hashirama’s skin. It was slick, bright red against the brown of his skin, and his Sharingan spun lazily as he looked Hashirama in the face.

He was bare from the chest up - in comparison, Madara was completely nude, his fallen yukata crumpled around him. He knew Hashirama liked to look at him. What typically caused him embarrassment was now a weapon, though, and Madara ran his leg up Hashirama’s thigh, smirking.

“Look me in the eye,” he drawled, looping an arm around his neck. His fingers splayed against the strong muscles of his back, nails digging in again. “If you can’t, don’t bother doing anything more.”

Madara was far too perceptive for his own good, in all the wrong moments. Hashirama wasn’t afraid of his sharingan, but the sight of it reminded him of the past he’d like to avoid. The past where Madara felt so much pain that this curse of his blood would become his power.

Now, however, it was a test of his desire. His eyes flicked down to Madara’s gaze, meeting it without a flinch. 

“Don’t be so smug,” he growled, running his hands over the bared, pale body in front of him. Madara was a mess of things that shouldn’t work together. The bloodred of his eyes. The black mane that could never be tamed. The pale skin, laced and littered with scars.

And all of this mess was everything Hashirama wanted. For this moment, Madara was his. 

Desire mingled with desperation and Hashirama moved in to kiss Madara again. Perhaps he’d be more bearable if he couldn’t make snide comments. Hashirama just wanted to touch him for an eternity, feel his skin beneath his fingertips, feel his coarse hair poke into Hashirama’s face when they got too close, drown in that scent of danger and power that always clung to Madara, no matter what.

His hands, searingly warm now with the rush of blood, traced the inside of Madara’s thighs.

Madara gave him a sharp smile and ran his hand down his chest, over the muscles of his chest, and undid his sash with a tug. He gripped him and his smile inched wider at how hard he was.

He stroked him slowly, the Sharingan memorizing every twitch and tell on Hashirama’s face, and murmured, “Did you touch her?”

He wrapped his other leg around Hashirama, locking him in place against Madara. His hand moved between them, slow and sure in the way he knew he liked, and he dragged his thumb over the tip, gentle despite the constant violent itch in him.

“Did she touch you?” he hissed, jealousy rearing its head. 

Hashirama hissed. Not because the touch was unwelcome or uncomfortable; but rather because Madara just had to go and bring up the ill-fated subject of his marriage. 

“No,” he muttered, not at all resisting the pleasant sensation of Madara’s strokes, “I couldn’t…”

What a shameful man he was. Abandoning his wife on their wedding night. It was, perhaps, one of the most selfish and cowardly acts of his life. He wouldn’t think about it now, there would be plenty of time for regret in the morning.

Madara knew exactly how to touch him, and he was not unaffected himself; Hashirama found revenge in the form of his hand on Madara’s hard flesh.

“You’re pleased by that, I know you are.”

“I am,” Madara crooned, voice husky with arousal. Why wouldn’t he be? He was winning. He tilted his head back and his dark hair rasped as it slipped over his shoulder and spread over the floor.

He exhaled shakily when Hashirama touched him and dragged his hand down his back, his nails leaving long red stripes behind. This was what he was owed - to not share Hashirama, to own him body and soul and heart, and to never share him with anyone. Madara imagined what he might have done if Hashirama had said yes and the bright-red promise of violence filled his lungs, slipped up his throat.

“You’re mine,” he said throatily, staring at Hashirama, hardly blinking. “You’re mine.”

It was more than a claim of ownership. It was a threat, thinly veiled and reinforced by the unending, crimson stare he directed at Hashirama. A shudder ran down Hashirama’s back, and it wasn’t entirely displeased. Some poor part of him shivered with fervent desire at being so boldly claimed, as if he had no choice in the matter.

That part would have to die after tonight, but for now, Hashirama would indulge it.

“…yes. I am.”

And as much as he meant those words, they would not be of great duration. After tonight, that too would disappear. Hashirama would stop this poisonous, all-consuming love he felt for Madara.

Victory tasted sweet.

Madara’s eyes seemed flare a deeper red at his confession and his hand dropped away from his back. He planted it on the floor and with a grunt, flipped them around so that Hashirama was now the one flat on his back. Madara straddled him, pleased by his trick.

He made a hand seal and a clone popped into existence next to him. It said nothing as it walked away and soon it was forgotten as Madara bent over him, elbows on the floor to brace himself. “I’m not going to lose you to her,” he said, his dark spill of hair creating an illusion of privacy around his whispered words. “Not now. Not ever.”

There were soft footsteps as the clone returned. Madara raised a hand and it dropped a bottle into his hand. But the clone didn’t disappear yet - it dropped down, grinned at Hashirama, and kissed his forehead, and popped into smoke. Madara scowled at the affection.

Hashirama had no questions about the shadow clone; though he certainly would ask Madara when he’d picked up Tobirama’s technique at some other point. When they weren’t so naked.

The possessive words were as endearing as they were irritating. Madara was a fool if he thought Hashirama loved this woman he barely knew. He’d be wise to know Hashirama could never belong only to him.

For tonight, Hashirama was content to let Madara believe that he could make a difference in this future. 

“If I am yours, then you are mine. Show me.”

Time stretched out as Madara leaned back, shifting his hips a little to get comfortable, and felt Hashirama press against him. He looked own at him through his hair, his face unreadable as he turned over what he said with measured consideration. His moods were always mercurial, even during the best of times, but the unbalanced spark in his eyes subsided and he rewarded Hashirama with a thin smirk.

He flicked his thumb and the cap popped open. Madara didn’t look away from Hashirama, even when he reached behind himself and pressed in. There was a delicate sort of equilibrium to this, dependent on how much power Madara thought he had in the situation. Here and now, there was no trace of embarrassment on his face as he sighed gutturally, a soft “Haaaah…” and his forehead only creased briefly when he pushed a second finger in.

He’s used to this by now - it doesn’t long for him to get accustomed to the stretch. He tilted his head back a fraction and his hair brushed against Hashirama’s legs.

The insides of his thighs were pressed against Hashirama’s sides, sticky-warm skin on skin, and his hips rolled slowly in a controlled way that deliberately ground back his cock. His eyes were half-shut, distant as he concentrated elsewhere.

Then he was back, looking down at Hashirama. He rose up a little, just enough to get more comfortable, and wrapped his slick hand around him to pump him a few times. He began to push down on his cock, moving slow, holding his gaze the entire time. Hashirama was always a bit too much to take in immediately and besides - he relished the grinding hot build-up.

Hashirama watched Madara with reverence in his eyes. There was no use hiding it, not tonight. To him, the man throning on top of him was some kind of mercurial god, benevolent and full of wrath. Hashirama wanted to drown in the harsh beauty that possessed every inch of Madara.

How had this fire turned man come to love him? How had Hashirama earned such fervent, fierce love? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to think about it, or how he would give it up.

Tonight, Madara was his god, and Hashirama would worship.

The reverie was broken by the sudden warmth engulfing him. Slow, careful, but steady. Hashirama would watch Madara’s face, listen to every noise that escaped his lips. He would lock it all into his heart and remember it eternally. His love. The one he could never have, but would always want.

Madara continued to press down onto him, and Hashirama rewarded him with an eager groan and wandering hands, finding their place on Madara’s hips.

The way Hashirama filled him up was maddening. Madara’s knees spread wide as he pushed down on him, feeling stretched open, satisfied in a gut-deep, visceral way. He took a few seconds just to adjust, breathing hard, and then his hips started to pull back up, then press back down, in tiny thrusts that made his toes curl.

He grabbed Hashirama’s thick wrists to brace himself on something and his thrusts got longer, pushing Hashirama deeper into himself. A soft noise crawled out of his open mouth. Madara was always quiet, right up until he got excited - then he couldn’t control himself.

Madara tensed when his motion finally hit a sweet spot inside him. In the span of a second, his face grew rigid, then went lax with pleasure, muscles clenching hard around where Hashirama was pushed up thick inside him. His gasp was ragged, knuckles growing white where he held onto Hashirama like a lifeline, nails drawing blood.

Madara set the pace, dictated every movement, kept Hashirama still beneath him as he rode to a mad, blissful oblivion. It wasn’t fair, but it was good. Hashirama could hardly drink enough of the sight into himself, and a smidgen of regret came to him as Madara seemed to satisfy himself without any regard of making this last as long as possible.

What a terrible, selfish man that he loved. What a terrible, selfish thing he was doing. And yet, Hashirama remained, tried to lose himself in Madara’s motions. His hips had no room to move, his hands were stilled on Madara’s body. Hashirama could have been replaced by a statue, the way he stared, still and absorbed, at Madara and his wild desire.

“You’re beautiful,” it was senseless to pay him such compliments, he did so anyway. No woman or man alive could mesmerize Hashirama like this. Only Madara.

Hashirama’s flattery ripped him out of his reverie. Madara looked at him from the corner of his eye and smiled despite himself. “That’s a funny word to use for me,” he said. Beautiful was a word for women who were soft and pretty and curvy in the hips. Madara was none of that, had never wanted that.

He stretched forward, biting his lip as the change made Hashirama’s cock move differently inside him, and let go of his wrists to grasp his shoulders. He moved slowly in an indulgent rhythm that made him shudder, both from how Hashirama felt inside him and the delicious friction of his cock against his stomach.

Madara couldn’t get enough of looking at him, in battle, in bed. There was a light sheen of sweat on Hashirama’s skin and some of that smooth brown hair was sticking to his forehead. He was barely conscious of his own hand smoothing it back, strangely intimate. A warmth unfurled inside his chest, something fond and tender, and Madara knew it, knew more than anything, that he hated Uzumaki Mito. 

“Hashirama,” Madara breathed.

She’d never understand what Hashirama meant. She hadn’t been there to see his dreams be born. She didn’t know how much blood, sweat, and tears he’d spilled for this dream of his, and Madara never wanted her to learn. Her soft love would never compare to his, not when she’d never see Hashirama like he had.

The first kiss was brief, barely enough, but Madara pulled back an inch. His eyes glowed in the darkness between them, the black wheel spinning. “Do you love me?”

Hashirama should not have spoken. He’d pulled Madara from his pleasant trance, had interrupted the steady pace. 

Only to resume it in a new position that had Hashirama’s breath grow quick and his chakra flicker before he settled it back to its usual, calm state. There was no need to alert every sensor in Konoha that he was…in this location and not another. That Hashirama couldn’t stay away from Madara long enough to make good on his own promise to do so. 

His wrists were released and he could finally wrap his arms around Madara and pull himself up further, so that he might not be drowned by the coarse mane of the man throning on his cock.

The question filtered through to him, arrived in his ear, but went unheard. Hashirama was too preoccupied chasing Madara’s mouth to answer right away. When he looked up to meet that deadly and alluring gaze, his expression was undone, his eyes hazy as he tried to remember what Madara had said. The rush of blood in his ears was drowning out the rest of the world. 

“What?”

Madara examined his face briefly. His eyes flickered and he shook his head. “Nothing.”

To distract him, he kissed him again. Bit down, to make his lips bleed again. They were close now, too close, their bodies fitted together like puzzle pieces, and Madara was aware of every inch of hot skin pressed against Hashirama. They shared one breath, one moment, and Madara grabbed his hair and pulled.

Hashirama’s neck was inviting, all long lines and thick muscle, and Madara licked and bit down until it was slick and covered in teeth marks, as red as a confession. He didn’t do it with as much care as he would have liked. Every time Hashirama hit a spot inside him, Madara jerked with a tight, hitched gasp and his hand raked down his back, and perhaps he was losing control of this faster than he liked. He licked his lips, tight-knit composure forgotten, tightening around Hashirama, and fisted his fingers in his hair, hard enough that he must have pulled some out, and rode him with the same enthusiasm that he fought him with.

When they kiss again, Madara was nothing but harsh breathing and teeth, biting at his mouth until he gasped because he got the angle just right.

Madara left him not a moment of peace to enjoy himself. Hashirama was caught up between his own impatience and every tiny twitch of Madara on top of him. It was maddening, and endlessly arousing for someone so fond of the punishment that came with being so deeply attached to Madara.

Hashirama might be the only one in that particular category. No one would ever understand why he did things like these. Why he met Madara at the worst of times, for the best of reasons. Nothing and no one else had such a terrible grip on him.

He held Madara tighter, forcing him to relent a little, just so that Hashirama could breathe and find his own rhythm other than the wild movements this demon of a man preferred.

His head bowed to the side as Madara decided to give him another set of marks. He’d have to remember to heal his patchy hide before he crawled home in the morning. But Hashirama had little patience for such thoughts right now. All that mattered was Madara. His beautiful, terrible Uchiha. 

Hashirama always had strong arms. Muscled, as thick as tree trunks, with long, long fingers covered in tiny scars and a wide, calloused palm. Madara liked them, paid a lot of attention to them.

When Hashirama crushed him against his chest, Madara slowed, unable to move with so much pressure on his back. He gave him a peevish look through one red slit but it wasn’t as venomous as he wanted it to be. Couldn’t be, not when he was flushed from his cheeks to his chest and he was hard enough to make his head spin.

Hashirama looked patient, because of course he did. Madara always liked it fast and wild, with a little pain and a lot of force, but Hashirama’s tastes ran in different directions.

His knees ached from where they were pressed into the wooden floor. Madara clenched the muscles of his thighs around Hashirama and smirked when he won a wheeze from him.

He’d win more from Hashirama than a wheeze if he wouldn’t allow himself to be handled.

Then again, when did Madara ever allow such things. Hashirama met his gaze. It was nearly always crimson now, and Hashirama had grown used to it, as much as he disliked it. He kissed the tip of Madara’s nose as he eased up on his back, moving his hands to cover Madara’s pale thighs instead.

Lifting him was no problem at all. He’d always been the stronger of the two of them. Madara was a trembling weight of pleasure and the promise of bloodshed, and Hashirama was so terribly fond of him it was unbearable.

“You remember how I like it, don’t you?”

Slow, deep, delectable. Hashirama’s taste in sex had always vastly differed from Madara’s rampant desires. But somehow, they made it work.

He almost twisted away from Hashirama when he was suddenly moved up, but smashed the impulse just in time. He didn’t manage to conceal his surprise, however, and he squirmed suspiciously, legs tightening to get a better grip.

“You…” Madara grit his teeth as he was jostled. This new position gave him less leverage. Without leverage, he couldn’t move as easily. Judging by the smug light in Hashirama’s eye, that was probably his intention.

He opened his mouth to say something waspish, but a thought occurred to him just in time. His lips curled up. “You’ll just have to stay the night then.”

“You think I was planning to leave?” Hashirama dared to let a smirk curve his lips, but it melted in the heat of his desires. Like this, Madara was glorious. To look at, to feel, to fuck. It was something that only this man could give Hashirama; this bliss of satisfaction that had yet to crest its highest point.

But there was no rush. This night could be endless; Hashirama wanted to make it so.

“I want every moment with you.” Every moment was stolen, and Hashirama simply pushed that fact aside. His heart was with Madara. It rested in his palm, unable to ever take the leap away.

He moved slowly in and out of Madara, sinking as deeply as he could, breathing in sharply every time Madara tightened around him.

Madara didn’t grace that with an answer. He pressed his face against the curve of his neck, staring at the long brown spill of his hair and the way it curved and stuck to the contours of his muscles. In half a daze, he slowly lifted his hand to Hashirama’s neck and rested it there.

A particularly good thrust made him shudder. His hand flexed and tightened, squeezing his throat. Not threatening, not yet, but just enough to hear a whistle in Hashirama’s breath.

Madara licked his lips again, tasting salt. He reached down between them and began to stroke himself, timed it to the way Hashirama moved under him, inside him. “Did you mean that?”

“Yes.” There was no sense in arguing the truth. For now, anyway. Hashirama had the rest of his life to admit that he was a fool who could not, despite all of his dreams, follow his heart alone. He had responsibilities, and they’d all suffer this foolish decision of his to come to Madara tonight.

But for a little longer, he’d push it away. 

The languid pace would get the better of him soon, no matter what sort of uncomfortable questions Madara could dream up.

That was enough. Madara’s hand spasmed around his throat as with one final stroke, he came with a drawn out groan of Hashirama’s name. His eyes shut as his back arched, riding the sharp edge of his pleasure, and he clenched around his cock with a trembling gasp.

The fogginess of the alcohol was long gone now but the feeling of Hashirama still thrusting into him kept his overworking mind at bay. Madara hissed, sparks flying in his vision, dancing close to the edge of oversensitivity as Hashirama’s every move made his gut clench.

He could feel Hashirama’s hot pulse under the hot weight of his palm. Madara thrust his weight down with new viciousness and ignored the tremble that juddered down his spine and he hissed into his ear, “Then do you love me?”

It would have been difficult not to let the way Madara clamped down on him affect him, and Hashirama didn’t try particularly hard to resist. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to. Madara had already won very thoroughly, if this was a contest of making Hashirama enjoy his mistake.

It didn’t feel like a mistake as he looked up at Madara, tightening his grip on him one more time. For a moment, he held his gaze, even as pleasure washed over him in a disproportionate amount. There was just something too intense about the way Madara watched him that Hashirama couldn’t resist. He spilled himself with a strangled noise, hidden deep in his throat. 

This time, he heard Madara’s question clearly. Hashirama leaned his forehead against Madara’s, ignoring how his coarse hair poked at him.

“I do. I love you.”

They stayed like that for a few moments, just catching their breaths, staring into each other’s eyes. Madara searched Hashirama’s face for a lie and found nothing but a disquieting amount of honesty.

He considered kicking him out. It would be a slap in the face, wouldn’t it? Appropriate punishment for what he’d done to him, to trade one rejection for another. But he couldn’t do that now - not when the shadow of that woman hung over his head. Would Hashirama crawl to her if Madara told him to leave?

He couldn’t risk it. This was war.

He pulled away first, his legs protesting the position they’d been in, but he didn’t walk away like he usually did. Madara offered Hashirama his hand. “Come to bed.”

It was an invitation Hashirama only needed to hear once. He took Madara’s hand and pulled himself off of the floor, ignoring the mess they left behind. 

No one would come to bother them anyway.

They laid in bed. Madara had taken a brief break to clean himself off and now he was dressed in a thin robe, laying opposite Hashirama. They could’ve gone to sleep like that but under the moon’s pale light, Madara felt suspended from earth, able to say things he’d never utter under the sun.

“She’s going to ask where you went.”

“I imagine so.”

Hashirama stretched out along the entire bed, hair askew, skin patchy and red. He’d heal it in the morning, if he could extract himself from Madara’s company.

“…I will have to lie.”

He didn’t like the prospect of that, but telling Mito the truth of where he went, what he did and with whom? Entirely impossible.

“You will,” Madara agreed. He pressed the soles of his feet against Hashirama’s ankles and used it to ground himself.

He pushed his hair back from his face and looked at Hashirama, his eyes now a calm, flat black. “How many times will you have to lie again?” How many times are you willing to lie?

“Do not ask me that.”

Hashirama refused the voice in him that demanded an answer to that question as well. It was an entirely selfish impulse, but this entire situation was based on selfish desire and impulse.

He closed his eyes, wished to remove all thoughts from his head. He was warm, warmer still where Madara touched him.

Anger flushed through him like a stream of hot water, so abrupt that his head spun from it. It bubbled through his limbs, his chest, and it was hot, scalding every part of him. He felt fire in his breath and he moved back from Hashirama as if he were venomous.

“Answer me,” Madara pushed. He lifted himself up onto his elbow. His eyes were too wide, a little too intense, and his voice was hard, the words bitten out. “You wanted the truth from me. I deserve to know yours too.”

So Madara would truly not have peace tonight. Hashirama had hoped, a little callously, that he could just evade until sleep took Madara from the realm of the questioning, but it would not be so. Of course not.

Madara was sharper than any other person or creature he knew; he was unforgiving and demanding. He’d not let Hashirama get away with his mistake so easily.

So he sighed and braced for another round of things being thrown his way, fists and curses among them.

“I should tell you that this will be the only time. That is what my head tells me to do.”

“Your head?” Madara snapped. He sat up abruptly. “And I suppose your head told you to come here too, is that it?”

How dare you. It bubbled up in him and threatened to boil over, the incandescent fury that only Hashirama could light in him. Madara’s hand shot out, grabbed a fistful of Hashirama’s hair, and he bent over him with his teeth bared in a snarl. His eyes were red, he was seeing red, and all he could envision was Hashirama with his back to him, her on his arm like she deserved him.

“I should have known,” he spat. “You lied to me. You lied to me!”

He’d kill her. He’d kill her. Damn the alliance, damn the Uzumaki, he’d storm their pitiful backwater and he’d burn it to the ground, to ash, to nothing.

There were few things more unpleasant than having the warm haze of post-coital bliss ripped away by the strands of your hair, quite literally.

Hashirama wanted to bury his head in the pillows. Or maybe bury Madara’s there until he calmed down. Dealing with a sack of angry cats would be child’s play compared to navigating Madara’s high-strung emotions.

“Madara-” he wasn’t being heard, at all. It took some effort to grasp his friend’s shoulders, and force him still as Hashirama looked into that terrible, red gaze.

“I regret it. Marrying her.” 

“Then why are you leaving me?!” Madara aimed a vicious jab into his side but Hashirama caught it before it landed. He didn’t do anything as undignified as struggling but his fist flexed, veins standing out in stark relief.

I own your heart, he wanted to scream at him. I’m the only one who can stand at your side. You think she can replace me? You think she can be anything compared to me? I’ll destroy her.

“Do you think I’d let you?” he demanded, his voice going flat. An uneven light played behind his face, feral in its intensity.

“What do you mean, let me? I already…” maybe Madara wasn’t listening after all. He was working himself up, as usual, making a situation far worse than it was. 

Alright no, this situation was pretty terrible, but it wasn’t beyond resolution.

“Madara, I’m not leaving. Will you calm down?” Hashirama pulled him closer, close enough so Madara’s impossibly wild mane poked him in the face and he had to blink.

He was close enough to bite a chunk out of Hashirama and he was tempted, sorely tempted, to sink his teeth in. He’d leave him bloody in a way that no one else could.

“I am not a toy to be played with and then set aside when it suits you,” Madara told him, his voice still flat, edged with a deadly keenness. “I won’t roll over over for your will like the rest of these pathetic children do. Remember that, Hashirama, or I will remind you.”

With fire. With blood.

Hashirama smoothed some unruly hair back and leaned forward, kissing Madara right on the nose. He could be full of fire and passion and threats, but he would never intimidate Hashirama. 

“You have never been a toy or anything lesser to me, Madara. You know that. And you also know that I did not marry for love. I cannot. It was a duty. An agreement. Do not treat it as anything else. My heart is yours.”

Madara reached for more to be angry about, but there was no more fuel left. The flames sputtered, died down a little, and Madara opened his mouth to say something. Anything. “You - you -”

His rage fizzled out unsatisfactorily and Madara shoved Hashirama away with a noise of disgust. “You married her,” he said, but without real conviction. It was a statement of fact and, as loathe as he was to admit it, Hashirama wasn’t wrong. And most importantly, Madara had what he really wanted. “You should have said no.”

Madara was frazzled enough to be more pliant, so Hashirama pulled him back until he was stuck flat against his chest, with the choice to either lean into him or be squashed between Hashirama’s arms. 

“I know. But there would have been another. And another. I am supposed to produce heirs somehow, you know. Unless you have some way of me doing that alone, I have to be married.”

Nothing but a jest. Hashirama was coming to terms with his selfishness, mostly by pushing reality firmly away, banishing it beyond the walls of this estate.

“Adopt,” Madara said, his voice faintly muffled. “Or sell Tobirama off.”

Now that was a fine idea, Tobirama hitched to some distant banshee and thrown out of Konoha. He could make as many of his spawn as he wanted and Hashirama would be free of demands for his spawn.

“I haven’t married,” he also pointed out, his tone growing rather waspish. “Somehow, I figured out the art of saying no multiple times.”

“You’re not as in demand, luckily,” Hashirama chuckled. That fact had nothing to do with Senju wealth or their relative power; anyone would be glad to take such accomplished shinobi into their family.

No. It was something else that made Hashirama a far more popular choice for such requests. Madara’s intimidating appearance combined with his impatience made for easy wrong impressions.

“Why haven’t you married? Just because of me?”

“Fool,” Madara growled into his shoulder. “Why would I waste my time with anyone else?”

He’d had requests too. They’d gone up after the village was formed once other clans began to realize the Uchiha were not just furious warmongers, but Madara had always smashed the idea flat as soon as it was raised. Unlike Hashirama and his millions of platitudes, he knew how to say no in a way that stuck.

“I care nothing about heirs. There are plenty of other Uchiha who would step up to the role in my place if they had to.” None as strong as him, but Madara was used to that. He and Hashirama inhabited a special place in the balance of power, so beyond anyone else that it could only be fate that brought them together in a world this huge.

“Women mean nothing to me.”

“Nor do a lot of other people,” Hashirama muttered, pressing Madara closer and running his fingers over his mane. Madara’s disregard for people was a problem all by itself, and not one anyone but Hashirama could solve.

In due time. For now, he was going to enjoy this moment until it was over.

“Do you care about anything, Madara?”

“My clan. This village.” You. 

And that was it. That was all that mattered. Madara didn’t know where Hashirama found that eternal ability to take anyone and everyone into his heart. All he knew was that he didn’t have it. There was only room for so much in him.

“I suppose I can’t ask for more than that.”

Hashirama should leave. He really shouldn’t have come at all, but he was weak in his indulgence. He was just a man and he had his vices; gambling, drinking, Madara.

And yet he idled, unwilling to even leave the bed.

“You shouldn’t,” Madara said. He should tell him to leave. The words were already prepared, just waiting to be deployed in a way that would hurt the most.

Instead, he laid down. Then he reached up, grabbed Hashirama’s arm, and guided him down too. Madara wrapped his arm around his shoulders and slipped his fingers into his hair. Still smooth, even after being tugged all night. He ran his fingers through it thoughtfully, his gaze becoming unfocused.

He sighed and closed his eyes.

“Go to sleep,” he ordered. This conversation was done. This night was done. He was tired of it.

Morning would come eventually, of course, and it’d bring its host of troubles. But for now, all Madara wanted to do was feel Hashirama warm and heavy on his chest, and let that be the only thing that mattered. 


	2. Chapter 2

Hashirama was avoiding him. Madara let it happen for a week, just to see how long he’d keep it up, and then he decided to take action. First, it wasn’t any important village matter. Madara kept his ear on the ground and he knew when there was an important Hokage-only matter. Second, nothing tragic had happened to the Senjus as of late. No deaths, no sicknesses, nothing, so it couldn’t be that. And third… Maeko seemed to be mad at him. And if she was mad and Hashirama was feeling guilty enough to ignore him… well, there could be only one possible answer to it all.

So he made an appointment. That wasn’t easy when you were the Uchiha clan head and the Hokage didn’t take simple walk-in’s, but he was owed a few favors from the civilian council that put his name in the itinerary without actually putting it in.

This part was important. If Hashirama suspected, he’d have time to run away. There was an art to this, Hashirama-wrangling, that Madara had perfected down to a tee. You couldn’t jump straight to the kill… you had to close all the escape routes first, and then start flaying him alive.

It was a clear day that the Hokage’s secretary quietly informed him that a “temporary fill-in representative from the civilian council is here to see you, sir” and Madara came in marching after the wan chuunin like he intended to deliver a war declaration. Warning flashed in his eyes when he met Hashirama’s gaze across the office, and Madara scowled. Dared him to duck out of this like he’d been carefully dancing around every other time Madara tried to find private time with him.

He grunted curtly at the chunin, chasing him off, and he kicked the door shut. It slammed close with a satisfying bang. Madara crossed his arms and leaned on the frame, his lips pursed.

“Well,” he began coldly, “I haven’t seen you around much.”

Whenever he tried to avoid something, it would come to seek him out. This philosophy applied to everything in his work, Tobirama and now, Madara as well. Would life ever be merciful on him in his time of need?

The talk with his daughter had been eye-opening, and devastating. His own daughter wouldn’t honor him with her gaze anymore, let alone speak with him. Mito still remained unknowing, but that would change.

As soon as Hashirama devised some way of telling her the truth. That their agreement on their wedding night had never been honored by him. That he was a despicable man who could not keep away from Uchiha Madara for more than a week. That he loved his children and wife paled in comparison to what he felt for Madara.

Who showed up in his office, unbidden and unwanted.

“Madara. What are you doing here?”

“Highly important debate centered around the village fish market,” he drawled sardonically. “What do you think I’m here for, Hashirama? I’ll give you three guesses.”

He stalked towards him, planted his hands on his desk, and leaned in. “Go on,” Madara murmured softly. He touched the brim of that stupid, stupid hat to tilt it up. “Guess.”

“I don’t have time for guessing games, Madara. I do have work to do, you know.”

That had been his go-to excuse for more than one person, occasion and day. It was easy to hide in his office. Easier than facing his wife or his daughter or his unchanged desire for Madara.

It was easy to pretend he wasn’t a terribly torn man when he looked over missions, reports and budgets.

“Pff.” He snorted dismissively and put his hand over the scroll that Hashirama had been bent over when he came in. “Now I know you’re really avoiding me, if you’re using that as an excuse.”

Normally, Madara had to actively bully him into doing his paperwork instead of slacking off. Hashirama was going to have to try harder.

“Your daughter won’t talk to me anymore,” he said. “I think that has to do with whatever this is. I’m right, aren’t I?”

“If you know everything, why are you here, asking me about it?”

Hashirama could be stubborn, when he wanted to, and he could think of several thousand things more pleasant than discussing this subject with Madara. Such as watching paint dry, or hitting himself in the face with a rock.

“Is there a point here, Madara?”

“My point is that you’re avoiding me,” Madara snapped, his patience running dry as soon as Hashirama’s stubbornness kicked in. There was no fun in playing games with someone who wasn’t interested. “You’re not subtle. And if she’s angry at me too… well. Then she must know. She said something to you about it. And now you’re hiding from everyone.”

He grabbed the front of his ridiculous robes and held him in place to kiss him. Madara let a little bit of his anger slip in, all teeth and tongue, and backed away a hair to speak.

“I haven’t seen you for a week.” Hashirama could ignore his wife and children all he wanted, Madara didn’t care. But him? Him? Oh no. That wasn’t allowed. Not in what they had.

Hashirama jerked his head back. He hadn’t really resisted the kissing part, but guilt was a great motivator to try.

“Madara! Not here, are you mad?”

Yes, he was right, yes, one of Hashirama’s two children knew, but that just meant they had to be more discreet, or Hashirama really had to consider her words of warning and advice. To break things off with Madara…his heart ached at the mere thought. Did he really have to give up even this last piece of his happiness?

“We can’t…we have to be more discreet. Or meet less. Probably that.”

Madara’s eyes narrowed. Then he grabbed the edge of Hashirama’s desk and dragged it aside one-handed, the wood groaning as it skidded over the floor. He straddled Hashirama’s lap, ignoring the sound of things cascading off the desk.

“Yes here,” Madara told him, incensed. “Here, and your house too, and in mine. Here and everywhere else I want it to be.” He kissed him again and he didn’t back off until Hashirama’s lips parted. He licked into his mouth hungrily, the building impatience of this entire week squeezed into one moment.

“I am not a coward who hides,” he growled once they separated. Madara pushed his hips against him, gripping Hashirama’s shoulders to steady himself. “I won’t bargain for your time like I’m some kneeling fool. I was here first, do you understand that? Before that wife of yours ever entered the picture, I was here. You belong to me.”

“Madara, could you be reasonable? For once?” Hashirama should push him off, really. He should examine his doubts, understand how his emotions worked, what his priorities should be. He should put aside his selfishness and give every part of himself to his family. He had a lovely wife and children that adored him. Or used to, anyway. He very much doubted that he could redeem himself in their eyes.

And yet his hands were on Madara, he pulled him closer, he didn’t disagree with his words.

“My family will hate me. My children will hate me. Do you care nothing for my heart at all?”

Madara scoffed as he flicked the hat off of his head. It tumbled back and out of sight, and he slid his hand between them, where he could feel Hashirama’s weakening defense.

Madara had been generous, hadn’t he? He’d let Hashirama sell the place he should have been in to secure the future of this village with minimal fuss or fight, and he never tried to push Mito out in earnest. He was kind to his children, because they were ultimately faultless, and he’d taken up his role as the sidelined lover with as much grace as possible (when, really, he could have killed them all and not lost a blink of sleep over it).

“They will grow up,” he told him, not unkindly. “They will learn that there are limits to the hearts of men. And that’s what you are, Hashirama -” he ground his palm against him through the heavy robes, his breath wafting over his ear, “- just a man.”

They lived in a world where children died in their cradles, where brothers were told to kill brothers, and everyone was a potential enemy; was it then unfair to seek out happiness? Was it really so bad to let himself love who he loved? All Madara did was want and, for once, he was allowed to take. And he did.

He bit his neck hard enough to leave indentions. “Holding back will give you more than misery giving in. Don’t we both deserve some happiness?”

Hashirama was terrible at resisting Madara, and even worse when Madara spoke sense to him.

He did deserve happiness. And Hashirama was just a man, no matter how many titles were bestowed upon him. It wasn’t fair that he could not have the one thing that fulfilled him and his wishes. He…and Madara both, had worked hard to make the dream of Konohagakure a reality. Why couldn’t they have this to themselves?

Because you made promises. You gave your word. 

His conscience sounded a lot like his daughter; hurt, accusing, unforgiving.

Hashirama pulled Madara to his lips, giving up his futile resistance. The robes he wore were heavy and in the way, but he could feel the heat of his lover’s touch through them anyway.

“You’re terrible. How can this be, Madara? You’re making a liar and oathbreaker out of me, and I am inclined to let you.”

“We’re all liars and oathbreakers,” he said between kisses. Hashirama tasted like victory and he wanted to lap it up. “Does it matter?”

It didn’t. None of it mattered. That was the beauty of what they had. In each other’s arms, everything stopped mattering. Who cared, as long as they had each other?

“I want you now,” Madara purred. His anger was gone. It had been a temporary thing anyway, born from wounded pride and offense. It fizzled easily in the face of Hashirama’s obvious interest. “Here,” he said, with a smirk and a glance at the desk he’d shoved aside.

They’d never fooled around in the Hokage office before, but Madara had definitely considered it. Now, there was added… incentive.

A terrible man. His lover was a terrible man, who made a terrible amount of sense. Hashirama sighed beneath him, his hands wandering inside of Madara’s loose clothing. Could he deny him anything, when he looked so devilishly charming and demanding? His heart was weak and soft and Madara had pushed his way into it years ago. Not even a god among men could resist such ardent, fervent desire. Madara’s love was addicting, and Hashirama drank that poison eagerly.

“I suppose it doesn’t really matter. I feel like the entire village knows and is just too respectful of me to mention it.”

“If they do, they haven’t said a word about it,” Madara said as they finally got out of that chair. He pressed up against the edge of the desk and he pulled on the front of Hashirama’s robes to reel him in.

“At least not to me,” he added with a chuckle, because who had the balls to confront him about his affairs?

Madara ran his hands down Hashirama’s back - then leaned back and frowned. “This stupid robe,” he said, “I can’t understand why you wear that thing. It’s hideous. It looks like a bedsheet.”

“You’d prefer if the Hokage wore nothing at all?” it was far too easy to fall into their familiar rhythm of trading gentle barbs. Hashirama needed this. He could breathe when Madara was around, all the expectations, all the responsibilities, everything falling from his shoulders.

He was free to be just Hashirama, because Madara would never ask him to be more or less than that.

“I imagine that would go over quite poorly.”

“The Hokage is invited to wear nothing at all only when it’s in private, with me,” Madara searched for the hidden buttons to remove the robe, but it was rather stubborn. And it kept moving. “This… fucking thing,” he growled, pulling on it until he managed to shove his hand through. It was still too on for him to do anything but get a good handful of Hashirama’s backside, and he grumbled.

“This is really the worst thing you ever wore. Do you pick everything you wear based on how difficult it is to get you out of them?” God. Sometimes he wondered why he was so eager to get this man naked. 

“You’re so impatient. Here. Sit back.” Hashirama heaved Madara out of his lap and onto the table. Those reports were just going to have to suffer through being crumpled beneath an Uchiha ass.

Hashirama stood up, letting the heavy robe drop from his shoulders and pool on the ground. He flicked his wrist towards the windows. They sealed themselves, and the door’s frame grew branches to prevent it from being opened.

Only then did he continue by undoing the sash, letting it drop down to the floor as well.

“You’d think you’d know how these robes work after all these years, love.”

“They're impractical and hideous,” Madara shot back as he kicked his pants off. His gloves followed. They joined Hashirama’s robes on the floor and he leaned back, knocking off even more things in the process. Madara didn’t care. He propped himself up on his elbow, and watched Hashirama strip for him.

“How about you give me a spin?” he teased as he began to stroke himself. 

He’d always liked Hashirama’s body. He was all his fantasies made real: the thick lines of his muscles, the clear brown eyes, the wideness in everything from his shoulders to his hands. Hashirama was built like the trees he controlled. Sometimes it made Madara breathless in a punched-out way. This was all his.

“Really?” Hashirama could feel how everything that had clouded his head for a week just slid away. Only Madara had that power. Madara and his mad, magnetic desire for Hashirama. How could he deny that man anything, let alone his heart and soul?

Hashirama did a slow spin, pausing with his back to Madara. He knew what his lover preferred in terms of angles and views. 

“Do you spend much time lusting over your Hokage, Uchiha?” Certainly not when he was hidden in those robes, but Hashirama doubted that they truly dampened his appeal for Madara.

And speaking of appealing to Madara; he was done showing off his body, and approached the man instead, his hand sliding over Madara’s and closing over his cock. It was familiar, hot, soft, hard, all things that he shouldn’t find so enchanting. But Hashirama did, that’s why they were here.

“All the time,” Madara breathed. He let his head fall back to exult in his triumph. There was a war for Hashirama’s heart and he was winning.

He hooked his legs around Hashirama’s waist and pulled him in close. His hands went to his shoulders and he kneaded the tense muscles there. Hashirama’s back was corded with solid muscle and office work made him tighten up. Madara pressed down, hard, and he pulled himself up his legs to kiss him.

Being this close was always a pleasure. He kissed him hungrily, then mouthed down his jaw to his neck. To one of the thin, pale scars he carried there - one of the gifts that Madara had given him over the years. In the cover of secrecy, he wasn’t ashamed of his hunger. His nails scratched over his skin and he bit him, rutting into his hand.

Always impatient and perpetually in motion. Keeping Madara still was like keeping a fire contained; it required constant attention. One misstep and you burned. 

Or in this case, were bitten or disregarded. Madara’s pleasure shifted quickly according to his mood, so it was best not to distract him from what they’d set into motion. Hashirama kept his grip just barely firm around Madara, giving him only a little friction to push himself against. It was better this way, and a tease of a smile clung to his lips. Yes, he had to admit, he was weak for the way Madara displayed his passion, how much he wanted Hashirama, always. What man could resist such ardent desire?

None.

And Hashirama, the poor fool, might as well have skipped his heart across a river in their youth. It remained in Madara’s clutches, and he was content to leave it there. No matter what.

“You came here with this in mind…”

Madara didn’t deny it. He held onto Hashirama tightly as he rolled his hips into his hand, pleasure building hot and tight in him… but then it loosely ebbed away when the pressure around his cock eased off. His half-shut eyes flew wide open.

Hashirama was teasing him. Madara growled as the friction only made him breathe harder, unsatisfied and impatient, and he bit him again, just a little harder, as warning. Hashirama was usually pliant when it came to sex but sometimes, he went and did his own thing and Madara still couldn’t decide if it was frustrating or intensely appealing.

Both. Probably both.

“Don’t play with me,” he muttered into his ear, even as he eagerly thrust up into his loose grip.

“Isn’t that exactly what you want me to do?” Hashirama returned, shifting Madara to be a little less upright. Further back on Hashirama’s desk. Papers, scrolls, seals all went flying off of the surface when he swept his arm over it. Madara’s thighs parted so nicely to fit him between them. Hashirama’s one free hand could appreciate the soft quality of the skin here, tender even on someone as fiery and wild as Madara. 

His grasp tightened until Madara could no longer rut against him like some dog in heat.

“Or is it something more carnal than that?” Hashirama chuckled briefly as he ran only his thumb over Madara’s cock. It was so eager for him, he could practically taste the impatience of the man behind it. 

Hashirama decided to be indulgent. He had to sink down to his knees in order to draw level with Madara’s cock, closing just his lips around the tip of it most delicately.

“Hashi - !” Madara cut off his shout with a choked sputter, his knees jumping up, and he grabbed his head so he didn’t tip over. He gathered a fistful of his hair and held on, embarrassingly hard even with this little.

_ Only a week _ , he told himself.  _ Control yourself. It was only a week. _

Yes, but it was a week spent completely without Hashirama. Was it unreasonable to want him so much?

No. Surely not.

“You’re the worst,” Madara hissed down at him, watching the way he pursed his lips around the head of his cock. His world shrank down to only that. He desperately wanted to shove him down and just get on with it, but his mind was in a deadlock between the desire to watch Hashirama suck his cock and the need to hold his head still while he came down his throat.

He bit the inside of his cheek and went the middle road of doing nothing.

Madara could curse, hiss, spit all he wanted, but Hashirama was determined to see this through. Taking him deeper into his mouth was a practiced thing now, though it had once been an awkward learning experience. Now? Now this even felt good.

Not because the sensation was great, but because Madara’s pleasure was so visceral that Hashirama wanted to stretch out and roll around in it. His beautiful lover, who blushed when Hashirama complimented him too much. How could he not love him?

Hashirama’s pleased thoughts translated directly into the effort of taking Madara into his mouth fully.

Madara groaned when Hashirama swallowed his cock, his voice low and throaty. His hips bucked too, trying to drive himself deeper into the tight heat of his mouth. He pulled a knee over his shoulder to balance himself and curled forward, panting over him.

“Didn’t you say… not here…?” he chuckled a little, breathless with pleasure, a shiver crawling down his pale thighs, “And now the Hokage… is on his knees…”

He liked that. He really liked that. Madara continued to jerk his hips up into his mouth in short, helpless bursts, unable to stop himself when Hashirama felt so good. His teeth were gritted, and some of the clever, awful things that Hashirama had learned over the years made his moans hitch up into whines.

Hashirama found nothing humiliating about this. Why should he? He was on his knees, yes, he was pleasuring Madara, yes, but he was doing it out of his own volition. He was doing this because he loved Madara, irrevocably, madly, even when he shouldn’t.

He closed his eyes to the world, focusing only on the taste and feeling of Madara’s pleasure. He wanted him to spill himself, lose all semblance of restraint, just because Hashirama had seen fit to give him such pleasure. That was the true appeal of being deviant, even here in his office.

The cock in his mouth felt like it was halfway down his throat, but that was alright too; he’d learned how to deal with such an unpleasant sensation.

Hashirama almost hummed as he placed a hand on the small strip of flesh not in his mouth, letting his fingers cradle all of Madara’s most delicate parts.

If only the village could see their esteemed Hokage right now.

Madara eyes slipped shut helplessly and he listed, like a falling tree, until it was only Hashirama who kept him upright. He wet his lips, his hair falling over his face, and his chest heaved as he sucked in heavy, rattling breaths.

His legs quivered.

His peak was sudden. It caught him off-guard and he canted his hips up sharply. His fingers twitched in Hashirama’s hair, wanting to hold him close but flexing as pleasure shocked his system. “Hahhh… Hashirama,” he whispered in a strained voice, moaning when Hashirama’s tongue licked up his cock.

Madara’s chakra curled around them like a hot, living thing. It was always temperamental, shifting with his moods, and now it wanted to flare hot, burn, until it enveloped everything. But Madara was currently useless, trapped by the heat of Hashirama’s mouth.

He spilled into his throat like he’d wanted to, and Madara’s head tilted to the side, his eyes screwed tightly shut as he trembled like a taut cord.

Hashirama had been ready for it. That didn’t make the sensation any more pleasant, but for Madara's sake, he’d endure. He’d taken worse, to be perfectly honest.

He made sure to wait until Madara looked down and met his gaze before he swallowed, slowly, indulgently, making sure Madara was paying attention before he pulled off of Madara’s cock.

“Have you forgiven me for my negligence?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so the ending is a bit abrupt and also the background was that one of Hashi's children busted him fooling around with his 'bestie', just in case this was confusing.


End file.
